Just Don't Fall in Love
by youngandobsessed
Summary: For one of his most challenging cases yet, Sherlock enlists the help of an old friend...who just happens to be the most sought after courtesan in all of Britain. Can they keep their relationship professional? SherlockxOC
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Okay, so this is my first Sherlock fic eva! I haven't written a lemon in ages since I've been busy with school and my other Iron Man story**_**, Daddy's Little Girl**_**, so I hope I'm not too rusty! I've had his idea since the summer and have now finally banged it out (no pun intended). Without further ado…**

Sherlock Homes ascended the steps of 296 Pennington Street, located in the destitute East End of London, an ideal location for the aristocratic clients who visited the resident of the spot because even in broad daylight like it was currently, no one they knew, co-workers, friends of their wives, etc. would ever encounter them in the squalor that existed there. The detective was visiting Genevieve **Beauregard**, a renowned courtesan amongst the British bourgeoisie for her youth, beauty, and ability to satisfy the men who possessed the pricey sum for her services.

Sherlock, however, had known her since she was Bess Merton, a penniless orphan begging for sustenance and shelter on the streets. Ten years ago, she had been instrumental in solving a case of his and Watson's. She had witnessed the robbery of the jewel they were attempting to recover, leading him straight to Irene Adler. Due to her assistance in the case, she had received a cut of the reward money, allowing her to purchase 296 Pennington Street and provide for herself. Sherlock realized that her means of income wasn't exactly moral, but she had come a long way from the raggedy, dirty, desperate urchin he had collaborated with a decade ago. She now resided in the lap of luxury.

He tapped on the door, awaiting Genevieve's landlady and assistant, Mrs. Oswald to answer. The elderly woman did so promptly.

"Ah, Mr. 'olmes, what a surprise! Do come in! Mizz Genevieve'll be 'appy to see ya, just wait 'ere in the parlor. She'll just be a moment," she greeted him in her Cockney accent as she ushered him inside the ornately decorated abode.

"Thank you, Mrs. Oswald," he replied, casually seating himself on a plush red armchair. "And if you don't mind me adding, Mrs. Oswald, I would suggest hiring someone more qualified for heavy lifting in Miss Beauregard's household."

Ms. Oswald stared at him dumbfounded for a few moments, surprised that he had noted her worsening posture, but soon thanked him and climbed up the staircase to inform Genevieve of her guest's arrival.

Genevieve was lounging in her boudoir, reading a Jane Austen novel, when Mrs. Oswald notified her that Sherlock Holmes was waiting downstairs. She had used a percentage of her funds to pay for a tutor years ago when she first started to make a pretty penny exploiting the animalistic nature of men. Considering her literacy a gift and a privilege, Genevieve read whenever she could, a bit paranoid that if she did not do so regularly, she would lose the skill. But upon learning that Sherlock had called, she swiftly closed the book and set it down, not bothering to remember what page number she was on, and sprung up from the chaise lounge.

"Sherlock?" she repeated, a bit breathless. "Do send him up Mrs. Oswald, just allow me to—" she dashed over to her vanity to check her appearance. She released her chocolate brown ringlets from the pins holding them up so they cascaded over her shoulders and then moved onto to applying another layer of powder to her porcelain complexion, a ring of kohl around her blue eyes, and rouge to her full lips. Genevieve then straightened up to examine her attire, which consisted of a champagne colored corset with a black lace overlay, matching underwear, stockings, and a long sweeping robe of black lace. Her garments actually coordinated quite well with the crème, black, and red décor of her room. She spun around once and adjusted her cleavage before responding to Mrs. Oswald "— bring him up please."

Her servant disappeared from the doorway and Genevieve bustled around her quarters, tidying up little for her caller as her heartbeat spluttered uncontrollably. Although she knew she shouldn't harbor affections for anyone, Genevieve had a weak spot for Holmes. The combination of his devilish and disheveled good looks, his unmatchable intelligence and wit, plus the past kindness he had shown to her made him irresistible to the young courtesan. There also the fact that he was the only man that had given her a—

"Genevieve," her thought was interrupted by an all too familiar masculine voice saying her name.

"Sherlock!" she exclaimed in excitement as she sauntered over from the bay window to the doorway to greet her companion with a peck on the lips. "Do come in darling, I don't have to tell you to make yourself comfortable."

"Very well," agreed the detective as he stepped into her boudoir. He watched Genevieve as she turned around and retreated towards the back of the room, seemingly to retrieve something, her scent lingering. It was crisp and clean, yet somehow intoxicating simultaneously.

Genevieve continued to address him in her customary breezy manner, "I am so glad that you've come to see me! I've been meaning to congratulate you on your apprehending of Lord Blackwood, but I haven't gotten the chance to sneak all the way over to Paddington lately."

"Yes, well, I'm sure business has kept you busy," replied Sherlock, his tone guarded and slightly uncomfortable. This certainly wasn't the first time he and Genevieve had engaged in such behavior, but whenever they did he always initially experienced uneasiness and a bit of guilt before Genevieve coaxed him into feeling more relaxed.

The youth returned with a bottle of champagne with two glasses.

"I wonder what that could be for," Sherlock pretended to muse.

"We need to celebrate!" she laughed. Genevieve popped the cork off the bottle and poured them each a glass before meeting Holmes at where he sat on her chaise lounge.

"To Sherlock Holmes, may your victories be endless," she toasted and clanked her class with his before taking a generous sip of the beverage.

"Thank you," he responded, cautiously drinking after Genevieve had, an action the young woman noticed.

"Really, Sherlock, I am offended. Why on earth would I have any intention of poisoning you whatsoever?" she demanded insulted.

So many potential answers flooded Holmes' mind he had difficulty picking just one. "Well, my dear Genevieve, perhaps you wanted to drug me so to steal the contents of my person or to you were enlisted to capture me."

Genevieve remained silent for a moment before responding, "First of all Mr. Holmes, the Earl of Doncaster is a patron of mine, so if I _was_ to rob a client, it would most certainly not be you. Secondly, I would rather die than betray a close friend of mine such as yourself. And lastly, you are acting ridiculously paranoid, which means you have recently received a visit from Irene Adler. What did she do this time, besides serve you tainted alcohol?"

"You're making many assumptions, Miss Beauregard,' Holmes warned her, even if they were correct.

"Yet I am confident in them. I've known since I was ten, Sherlock, and during those years you have taught me to be observant," Genevieve replied, a triumphant grin tugging at the corner of her painted lips. She took another swig from the champagne flute.

"I am impressed you've been paying attention," Sherlock replied, his voice genuinely a bit surprised.

"Are you going to tell me what happened between you two?"

"The usual," was Sherlock's curt reply before gulping down the contents of his beverage.

Genevieve nodded her head in comprehension. "I see. If you ask me, she's a twit for playing with your affections. If she only knew what she was missing…"

Before Sherlock could react, Genevieve lip's collided with his. This is what made his relationship with her ideal, they could engage in conversation and banter, as well as other things, but there was never any courting and delicate feelings involved like in all of Sherlock's other relationships with women. He and Genevieve shared a unique directness that Sherlock cherished.

Sherlock deftly procured her glass and placed it along with his on a nearby end table. Genevieve mumbled a thank you between kisses as Sherlock reached back to her hips and pulled her into his lap, an action that elicited an appreciative moan from both of them. The couple continued to kiss feverishly as Genevieve began to grind herself into Sherlock's crotch, aiding the stiffening occurring there. The sensation had been dearly missed by Sherlock, it had been _too long_ since he had been intimate with a woman, and his head fell back as he enjoyed it.

Wasting no time, Genevieve shifted her kisses from Sherlock's mouth to his neck, suckling and gently biting the skin there. His hands began to explore her body, moving from each side of her hips to her bottom, then to right below her bosom to untie the sash of her robe and slide it off her shoulders.

Genevieve's small, soft hands then dropped from Sherlock's shoulders and travelled south, on the way down, she unbuttoned his waistcoat as well as his trousers and slipped her hands into his underwear to grip his already rigid member, extracting a hearty moan from Holmes. Genevieve smirked at his reaction and began to stroke him, as she did, she was reminded just how well endowed the Empire's premiere detective was. Irene Adler was an idiot.

Genevieve alternated the speed of her strokes in accordance to feedback she was receiving from Sherlock. As a result of being with more men than she would like to admit, Genevieve had learned a great deal about the fragility of the male ego, and pushing Sherlock over the edge too soon would definitely bruise his. Eventually, she hoisted herself out of Sherlock's lap and lowered herself down to the room's carpet, where she pulled down all that was clothing his lower half as well as disposing of his shoes.

Holmes sat up and glanced down at Genevieve, catching her eyes. She simply bit her lip mischievously before her wet, pink tongue poked out and licked the length Sherlock's manhood.

"D-d-dear God, Genevieve," he stammered. Genevieve glanced up at him fleetingly, her eyes full of deviousness and seduction. It was a slightly disquieting shift from her normal enthusiastic and bubbly demeanor. The glare only lasted a fraction of a second, and then Genevieve was back swirling her tongue around and sucking Sherlock as he groaned nearly helplessly. She took an almost sadistic type of pleasure in teasing Sherlock like this, and when she decided he'd had enough she took all of him into her mouth as well as cupped his sensitive sack and he erupted very soon after, spouting curses as he did so.

Genevieve Beauregard was not some cheap prostitute. She did not walk the streets. She did not negotiate prices. She had rules, one which was no exchange of bodily fluids. But this was _Sherlock_, so exceptions were made as she swallowed the byproduct of his climax all too eagerly.

Once she had, she breathed a quick sigh of content accomplishment and rose to join Sherlock on the chaise lounge, reduced to a panting, slightly sweaty mess.

"I am afraid I am no longer of use to you, Gen."

Genevieve let a quick giggle escape before addressing her partner. "Please Sherlock, I am more than confident than I can get you hard as marble again before the afternoon is out."

Her statement was met with a shocked expression from Sherlock due to her choice of language.

"I never said I was a lady," she defended, "I just act like one."

"And that, I am infinitely thankful for," replied Sherlock as he loomed closer to her and whispered in a raspy tone, "I need to touch you."

"Then by all means," she whispered back, her lips millimeters from his.

Sherlock pulled the courtesan on top him again so he could nimbly untie and loosen her corset from her hourglass physique. Once the garment was discarded from her body Sherlock didn't hesitate to cup both of her breasts, causing Genevieve to cry out in pleasure. Her breathing grew progressively frantic as he kneaded her breasts and then used his mouth to tease her nipples. She encouraged his efforts with pronounced moans and sighs.

Sherlock guided her to lay back on the chaise lounge as her hovered over semi-clothed body, examining her buxom figure and deducing '_still too much clothing'_, although all that was left was the small scrap of silk covering her most private parts and her black thigh-high stockings. He made quick work of her panties, tossing them across the room once he removed them (he decided to keep to stockings though), and then settling himself between her slender thighs. Genevieve was breathless with anticipation, Sherlock was the only man of her vast clientele that bothered to reciprocate, and reciprocate well he did.

He began by licking the separation of her folds, bringing forth a strangled moan of pleasure from Genevieve's lips. He kissed and then started to heatedly lap at her wetness. Another cry from Genevieve was heard and she gripped the sides of the lounge chair to keep sane.

"Oh yes…Sherlock…yes!" she praised her tone high pitched and breathy.

Sherlock firmly prevented her hips from bucking in pleasure by restraining them with his hands and continued his assault by encircling his around her sensitive bundle of nerves before proceeding to suck on it until Genevieve screamed out in ecstasy and her juices poured out. Being ever the gentlemen, he cleaned her up before climbing back up her body and meeting her face to face. Her complexion was flushed and there were a few stray brunette strands of hair matted to her face as evidence of Sherlock's handiwork.

"You must receive countless complaints from your neighbors," remarked Sherlock as he began to nibble her ear.

Genevieve laughed. "This is Poplar, Sherlock, not Paddington; there is absolutely no decency expected between neighbors. And besides, usually I do not scream."

"You are aware how dangerous a statement such as that is to my ego," he admonished her, ceasing his ministrations on her ear to look her in the eye.

"A risk I am more than willing to take," she informed him as-a-matter-of-factly, not breaking his gaze.

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. "Well then, let us continue."

Their lips met again hungrily. Genevieve's tongue sought entrance into Sherlock's in a matter of seconds and in no time they were engaged in a duel for dominance. She had also taken up rubbing herself against Sherlock again, once again hardening his already semi-stiff organ. Genevieve ran her hands down Sherlock's muscled back, giving his derriere a quick squeeze before tugging the hem of his shirt over his head, taking his waistcoat along with it. Now he was completely naked, a fact that brought a wicked grin to Genevieve's lips.

Soon their coitus became too unbearable to defer, Sherlock was aroused to the point of aching and Genevieve's arousal dripped down her thighs.

"How do you want me?" she exhaled.

"This is fine to start," he huffed in reply.

In preparation, Genevieve spread her legs apart further and Sherlock positioned himself to enter her. She peeked down at his erection and added, "Told you so."

"I was foolish to doubt you," he admitted.

"Next time you shou-uggghhhnn" Genevieve's quip was reduced to unintelligible syllables as Sherlock plunged inside of her.

At first, his thrusts are deliciously slow and languid; Genevieve's eyes rolled back into her head as her hips lifted off the surface of the chaise to meet every thrust. Neither of them was in a rush and they allowed their pace to build slowly.

"Ugh…yes…yessssssss" hissed Genevieve as Sherlock shifted his angle of penetration as he drove into her.

"More," Sherlock panted, "I need more."

Genevieve wordlessly answered his request by agilely pushing Sherlock back and pulling herself on top so she was now straddling him. She began to bounce on top of him vehemently.

Sherlock couldn't help but drink in the splendid view before him. The ridiculously beautiful Genevieve Beauregard, clothed only in sheer black stockings, was riding him in all her erotic glory. The sight nearly caused him to lose all control right then and there, but he felt her sheath begin to contract and release uncontrollably around him, signaling her climax was near.

Genevieve's moans had escalated to discordant shrieks, "Oh…oh….oh my…._Sherlock_! Yes, Sherlock! God, please right there! Ah…_AH_…"

Sherlock labored to propel himself up into Genevieve as hard as he could, it only took a few more thrusts until Genevieve milked him with her orgasm, which was naturally accompanied by an operatic high note.

"Come on darling," Genevieve encouraged a few moments later after she'd recovered somewhat, Sherlock still inside of her thrusting, her vision still compromised by the stars she was seeing."Come for me, Sherlock."

All it took was those four words for the white fire of his peak to surge throughout his body and take control. He managed to cry out a warning to Genevieve so she could remove herself by the time the stream of hot liquid left his system.

Several minutes passed before either one could move. They lay together, a little awkwardly, on the chaise lounge reveling in the events of the past hour.

Genevieve was the first to recover. She turned to Sherlock, placed a quick kiss on his cheek, and murmured "That was divine." She rose from the chaise disappeared behind her dressing screen temporarily, emerging still clad in her stockings and a red silk oriental-style robe with a damp washcloth in her hand.

When she set her eyes on Sherlock, he was pulling on his trousers. She retrieved his shirt and waistcoat from the lamp they had landed on and brought them over to him.

"Agreed," he said.

"Beg your pardon?" she questioned.

"This was divine," Sherlock clarified as she handed him his shirt and waistcoat.

She merely smiled and began to clean him up with the cloth. Silence permeated the room, but it wasn't entirely uncomfortable.

Once Sherlock was dressed and ready to be on his way, he began to search for his wallet among his person, "I suppose I should reimburse you for—"

"Sherlock," Genevieve disrupted his speech.

"Yes."

"When have I ever permitted you to pay me?"

They exchanged an intense stare. Her blue irises bore into his brown ones.

"Right, then," he replied, ceasing her search for his money.

Genevieve stepped toward him, enclosing the space separating their bodies. Although Sherlock was not the tallest man in all of London, Genevieve still had to direct her gaze upward to meet his.

"Take care, Sherlock. You know where to find me if you need anything," she told him, her voice steady and sincere.

"Yes, Genevieve, now I must—"

"And not just your sexual needs," she added and then instantly regretted doing so, but decided to continue on nonetheless. "I mean _anything_, Sherlock. You saved my life. I will never forget that, no matter how much cocaine you defile that brilliant mind of yours with."

"Noted, Miss Beauregard," Sherlock assured her and placed a light kiss on her lips.

"Until next time, Mr. Holmes."

**A/N: You like? Please feel free to send me feedback (ahem, reviews). This could become a full fledged story with a plot and everything…so let me know if you'd like to see that happen! The power is in your hands people! **

**-youngandobsessed**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thanks to everyone who reviewed/alerted/favorited because I've decided to make this a full story! This chapter kind of mutated into a longer version than I originally thought, so I apologize for taking so long to update. Enjoy! **

Sherlock rested in his arm chair at 221B Baker Street, utterly bored. The only case that provided the detective any intrigue was that of Professor Moriarity, and lately that had only resulted in dead ends whenever Sherlock found a sliver of a lead. He couldn't even think of an experiment interesting enough to rouse him into action. Therefore, Sherlock simply allowed his mind to wander and it wasn't long until the thought of Genevieve crept into his conscious. It had been a week since their last encounter; yet instead of recalling their most recent rendezvous, Sherlock reminisced about when he first met her, when her name was still Bess Merton.

Sherlock kept a group of young boys, he referred to them as the Baker Street Irregulars, to assist him in being the eyes and ears of London. He paid them a shilling a day, occasionally more if they brought him a tidbit that was especially valuable or useful. Bess Merton had been the only female Baker Street Irregular. He still remembered his first encounter with her vividly.

_Sherlock briskly entered the alleyway where the boys congregated. There was about ten or twelve of them, all addressing each other loud voices and horsing around. _

"_Well chaps, what do you have for me today?" he asked them, making his presence known. Immediately the boys froze and turned to address the man._

_Wiggins, the leader of the band, stepped forward, confident swagger to his gait. "I hope you brought your more than just a score of shillings Mr. Holmes, because I just so happen to have a witness for your case on the jewel robbery that happened a fortnight ago."_

_Sherlock fought to keep his facial expression neutral. The case of the Cullinian Diamond had been particularly troubling. So if Wiggins really had someone that witnessed the crime, he would pay dearly for it. "Is that so? I hope for your sake Wiggins, that you are not lying, since I have no patience for any shenanigans today."_

"_Oh I'm sure Mr. Holmes," the youth assured him, undeterred by Sherlock's threat. He turned his head towards the depths of the alley and called in a harsh tone "BESS! GET OVER HERE NOW!"_

_The face of a little girl appeared, revealing itself from behind a pile of rubbish. An air of uncertainty and fear covered the girl's face, along with several smudges of soot and dirt. Yet through all the filth, Sherlock was particularly drawn to the girl's eyes. Not only were they a striking shade of sky blue, but they were filled a sadness and desperation that touched the usually unflappable detective. _

"_COME BESS!" Wiggins yelled again. "MR. HOLMES DOESN'T HAVE ALL DAY!"_

_She shuffled out from behind the mound of garbage over to the men, her eyes adverted for the entire while. Sherlock noted the skeleton-like frame she possessed, a product of malnourishment no doubt, obvious from how the rags of clothing dangled off of her hunched shoulders. Finally, Bess reached Sherlock and Wiggins. _

"_Go on," Wiggins instructed her, "Tell Mr. Holmes what you saw."_

"_Um I-I was looking for food down by the docks and a woman bumped into me by accident. People usually don't notice me, so it didn't really bother me. Bu-but the lady—she had— was wearing the most loveliest necklace I had ever seen and so Wiggins thinks maybe the lady stole the jewel you're looking for."_

"_What did the necklace look like?" Sherlock inquired._

"_Weh-well, it was big and sparkly, even in the darkness."_

"_You said you ran into the woman at nighttime, exactly what time did you encounter her?"_

"_I don't know."_

"_Think, Bess," the detective pressed. The case of the missing diamond was of royal status, if he could recover the jewel and apprehend its culprit, the reward would be enormous. _

"_I…I remember the big clock had just chimed a lot of times," she offered, "I don't know how many, I'm not very good at counting."_

_The girl had mentioned a woman, Sherlock already had a guess who it could be, but he needed confirmation. "And the woman, could you describe her to me?"_

"_She was very pretty…she had brown hair and light eyes," described Bess. Brown hair and light eyes, Sherlock's hunch was becoming more definite with each word Bess said. _

"_And did she day anything to you?" queried Sherlock. At this point he was simply strengthening his assumption. _

"_Yes! She said 'Pardon me,' but she said it funny," Bess remarked._

"_What do you mean by funny, Bess?"_

"_Well, she sounded different from anyone I had ever met. I can't…_like this_," the last words she said were spoken in a poor attempt at an American accent._

_Irene Adler. She fit the girl's description perfectly: American, dark hair, light eyes, beautiful…Sherlock rebuked himself for tacking on that last adjective. He refocused himself back to the task at hand. Now that he had his woman, he simply needed to discern her method of escape. _

"_And do you remember which way she went?" he asked Bess. _

"_Well, sir," Bess began, the task of recalling her encounter with Miss Alder was obviously causing her a considerable mental strain. "I…I can't…maybe I could show you if we went back to where I saw her."_

"_Bess, Mr. Holmes doesn't have the time or the want to take someone like _you," _Wiggins filled the pronoun with contempt and supremacy, "out on cases with him."_

"_On the contrary," Sherlock challenged the preteen. "I feel that in this situation Miss Merton's company would be most necessary. Bess, could you meet me there later today, at approximately three o'clock?"_

_Bess's eyes instantly lit up due to her newfound significance, yet they returned to their previously dejected state much too quickly. _

"_Mis-mister Holmes, I would, I just…I can't tell time very well," she admitted ashamedly. _

"_I could take her, Mr. Holmes!" One of the boys, Sherlock believed he was called Ned, volunteered. Whether he offered his services out of pity for Bess or the prospect of being paid a few extra shillings, Sherlock wasn't entirely sure._

"_Very well then, Watson and I shall meet you three at St. Katherine's Docks at three this afternoon," Sherlock said, clapping his hands together. "Anything else?"_

Sherlock's memory then sped ahead to an evening a week following his first meeting with Bess. Although Irene had slipped through his fingers, the jewel had been returned and Sherlock had collected his immense reward for doing so.

_It had been raining that night, yet Sherlock had braved the torrential downpour to trek across London to the East End with the purpose of making a delivery. The detective ambled through the streets until he found her, the little girl with the haunting eyes. He found her huddled under the shelter of a hat shop's awning, practically convulsing from the cold. _

"_Bess," he called to get her attention. _

"_Mr. Holmes?" she inquired as she looked up, surprise coloring her voice. _

"_We need to get you out of the rain," he insisted, taking the young girl's hand and leading her around the bend. Sherlock remembered there was a boarding house nearby, 296 Pennington Street to be exact, where she could stay. Once they arrived, the landlady escorted them in. Sherlock couldn't help but wonder what the old broad must of thought of the unlikely pair. Father and daughter, perhaps. Once the woman, Mrs. Oswald, situated them in a room, Sherlock began to speak._

"_Thank you for taking me here, Mr. Holmes," Bess told him, her small frame resting on the bed of the modest bedroom. "But I can't afford the rate here, I don't have any money at all." _

"_That is why I wanted to speak with you, Bess," Sherlock began. "I am giving you a reward."_

"_A reward?" she echoed._

"_Yes, for assisting me in the case of the stolen Cullinian Diamond," continued the detective. "Usually, I do not share my reward with anyone besides my partner—"_

"_Dr. John!" Bess interrupted, joyful that she could recognize one thing that Sherlock was talking about. _

"_Yes, Dr. John. But, since you were exceedingly instrumental in the repossession of the jewel, I have decided to appropriate a fraction of the reward money to you, Bess." _

_Bess's reply was a gob smacked stare as her feeble mind endeavored to comprehend what Sherlock said. _

"_How much?" She finally mumbled. _

"_Enough for you to stay here for quite some time," he replied. _

"_And it's all _mine_?" Bess pressed._

"_Yes, silly girl, the money is entirely yours. Of course I'll check on the account to make sure you aren't spending it foolishly however," Sherlock explained. _

_Bess's gaze shifted from the spot of wall they had been previously fixated on to look Sherlock in the eyes. "Mr. Holmes, I don't know how I will ever repay you."_

This time Sherlock's reverie raced ahead years rather than weeks.

_With a mind as brilliant and sharp as Sherlock's, one could safely assume that it required nearly inhuman amounts of toxic substances to render him inebriated. He stumbled slightly along the city streets, meandering around London with no specific destination in mind. The source of Sherlock's rather pathetic state had been none other than Irene Adler. Their encounters tended to leave Sherlock frustrated, not only mentally, but physically. He needed release from all the tension and stress her sudden appearances created in his already hectic existence. _

_The detective stopped to determine where exactly his legs had subconsciously carried him. The subtle scent of salt water wafted through his nostrils, so Sherlock knew he must be near the river. He looked up at the address of the eerily familiar façade to confirm his location. 296 Pennington Street. Only now the site was no longer a boarding house, it had become the private residence of the most expensive courtesan in all of London. Bess. Well, she had since changed her name to something French and pretentious, but even so, Sherlock found it difficult to comprehend that the little girl he had left on this doorstep all those years ago was now the beauty he overheard men rave about. It was a mix of that confusion and curiosity that compelled him to climb the stairs and knock on the door. _

_The door hadn't opened completely before the grating cockney accent of Mrs. Oswald was already shooing him off. "—Beauregard is no longer seeing clients this eve'ing, you'll 'ave to come back—Mr. 'olmes?"_

"_Mrs. Oswald," Sherlock greeted her. "Now what was that about Mademoiselle Beauregard?"_

"_Oh, no matter," the landlady dismissed her previous comment with flourish of her hands. "Come in, come in."_

_Sherlock stepped inside and immediately observed the radical change of décor since his last visit. The modest, functional furnishings of several years ago had been traded for opulent and luxurious ones. _

"_One moment, Mr. 'olmes. Let me tell 'er you're 'ere," Mrs. Oswald told him, disappearing from the parlor she had ushered him into. _

_It seemed like an eternity and simultaneously only a moment before he heard two pairs of feet. Sherlock left the parlor for the entrance hall, and on the stairs stood a young woman tying a sash belonging to an ornate kimono. She was heatedly discussing something with Mrs. Oswald before she noticed his presence._

"Sherlock?"

_The detective didn't answer her, his mind was too preoccupied trying to process the image before him. She was nearly unrecognizable, the only feature that assured Sherlock it was Bess were her brilliant blue eyes. Only now there was no more sadness pouring out of them, or perhaps it was better concealed. And even though the vibrancy of her eyes remained, everything else about her was different. For starters, she was properly bathed, her face was made up with powder, rouge, and kohl, and her hair was curled and piled elegantly on top of her head. Naturally, she was taller now and her figure was no longer reminded him of a rag doll. Quite the contrary, Bess now had curves in all the right places. _

"_You look…different," Sherlock concluded. _

"_Well I'd hope so," she laughed lightly. "It's been six years, Sherlock."_

"_Six years," Sherlock repeated. It really didn't seem that long, but the evidence of the time passed was standing right before him. "Bess—"_

"_Genevieve," she cut him off. _

"_Ah, right. I heard you changed your name."_

"_It means 'woman of the people' in French," she explained with a touch of defensiveness in her tone._

"_And Beauregard?"_

"_Beautiful view."_

"_Fitting."_

"_Thank you," she smiled and her guarded exterior seemed to melt considerably. "Could I get you something? Coffee, perhaps?"_

"_Why coffee?" Now it was Sherlock's voice that was tinged with hostility._

"_You look like you need it," she informed him in a voice that was both as-a-matter-of-fact and gentle. "I'll take a cup of tea if you don't mind, Mrs. Oswald."_

_The landlady disappeared from the entrance hall and into the depths of the house. _

"_Well, are you just going to stand there all night?" Genevieve inquired, sounding dangerously inviting. _

_Sherlock followed her up the remainder of the steps and through a doorway that led to an equally as lavishly decorated boudoir as the rest of the residence. He found himself joining Genevieve on a crimson chaise lounge. An awkward silence prevailed as the couple tried to think of something to say to each other. So much had changed. _

"_Why now, Sherlock?" Genevieve finally blurted out. "It's been six years, why tonight, Sherlock?"_

_He decided to be honest with her for two reasons. The first was that he respected her. The second was his intoxicated mind couldn't fabricate a believable enough excuse. "I was in the neighborhood and I wanted to see for myself."_

"_That I was a prostitute."_

"_Yes, you were just a little girl the last time I saw you," he reminded her. _

"_Well, I grew up fast," Genevieve replied, some carefully contained resentment spilling into her tone. She quickly recomposed herself. "She got away again, didn't she?" _

"_Who do you mean, Beh-Genevieve?" Sherlock questioned in a lame attempt to avoid the subject of Irene. _

_Genevieve's reply was stern look which informed Sherlock that she was not to be bullshitted. _

"_How'd you know?" _

"_I read the papers. I don't know why you involve yourself with that woman. I have more decency than she does, and I sell myself," she stated bluntly. _

"_You wouldn't understand, Genevieve, it's complicated," Sherlock struggled to justify his relationship with Irene to Genevieve. _

"_That's where you're wrong, Sherlock. I do understand and when I think about it, it really isn't that complicated at all." Genevieve contended as she shifted her gaze away from the detective and focused her eyesight in the floor in order to muster the courage to voice what she about to say. "You have some indescribable, incurable fascination with Miss Adler and it's the closest thing to love you've ever felt. And for that reason, since you're not naturally inclined to real emotion as it is, let alone love, you'll do anything to keep this hint of genuine feeling in your life, no matter what lengths it requires you to go to or how personally harmful it is. And try as you might to dismiss it, you never really can because honestly, you don't want it to go, since it may be one of the only reminders that you're still a living, breathing, feeling human."_

_Sherlock locked gazes with Genevieve for several silent seconds, perhaps it was an entire minute before he declared, "You truly have grown up, haven't you?" _

_Genevieve replied by capturing Sherlock's lips in an ardent, languid kiss. He was distracted by the immediate pleasure and release of the lip lock for a few bewildering moments before his inner alarm system frantically reminded him exactly whose tongue has just slipped into his mouth. This was _Bess, _the little girl whose face he first saw emerge from behind a load of garbage. She may go by a different name and wear makeup now, but she was still very much a child. This was a new level of depravity, even for him. He was going to hell. He was going to burn in the blazing hot fires of the Underworld for this. _

_Nevertheless, Sherlock shelved all these reproachful, rational thoughts and reached to untie the sash of Genevieve's robe because as much as he it shamed him to admit it, Sherlock couldn't be alone tonight. He needed Genevieve to remind him that he was human._

"Mr. Holmes?" the voice of Constable Clark had ripped Holmes's consciousness back to present.

Sherlock turned in his chair hastily to address him. "What is it now, Clarkie?" he demanded irritably.

"Forgive me, Mr. Holmes, but Inspector Lestrade needs you quick. There's been an emergency."

**A/N: And there it is! I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. I've still got some plot stuff to work out, but I'm pretty excited about what I already do have planned! You all know what to do to show some love and get the next chapter up sooner rather than later! **

**Hearts and Stars,**

**youngandobessed **


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